Member-only story
The Figure at the Gate
Lightning lightening something frightening
Sixty-nine-year-old Charles sat in an armchair by the fire. He drew on a clay pipe as he turned the page of a book which rested on his lap. A glass of port stood on a small table, within easy reach. The evening’s repast of poached eggs on toast settled comfortably in his stomach, and his wife, Ethel, sat in an adjacent chair, busying herself with needlework. Ginger, their tom cat, lay sleeping on a rug on the floor in front of the fire.
Charles and Ethel were a happy couple who were, despite a major tragedy earlier in life, satisfied with their lot. The casual observer might have considered the crackling of the fire, and the ticking of a large clock which stood on the mantel shelf, an agreeable soundtrack to this vista of contentment.
They lived in an isolated cottage on the outskirts of a small village. Charles worked as pot man at the village inn, while Ethel did an assortment of cleaning jobs for a local doctor. They had no surviving children, their only son Norman having succumbed to typhoid in Bloemfontein in 1900. He was buried close to the hospital in which he died.
A loud peal of thunder interrupted the peaceful scene. The couple exchanged a glance, but then went back to their individual activities. For Charles, the thunder served as an enhancement…
